Monday, April 27, 2015

When I consider the children of the middle class
as representations of phenomena to my subject sense
I can hardly see them at all, they fade
into the shrubbery, of which a superabundance
is sui generis their world. I am likely to be overwhelmed,
or distracted, leaning my mind on some green bosom.
But then they are things-in-themselves, these children,
and their glee is a thing-in-itself, their exuberance
as they terrorize one another, wiping themselves out
in a continuum of destruction, themselves
as surrogates of parents. But the parents remain
representations, never things-in-themselves, but only
shadow-figures taking out the garbage; and thus
the Will of Schopenhauer's essay leaps out at me
in children-in-themselves, starker than stones or stars,
so that i cower; for the future is theirs, day by day
they remove it from the plastic wrap of not-being
and leave it on the death-strewn lawns. Yes, if will
is all we know of ourselves as things, and thence
of all things, how can I not infer a radical divergence
of degree between everything else and children? The spirea
dies, the little nebulae of viburnum wink out in willing
whatness, but the children's shrieks of bliss and triumph
are merciless, raging from another world, another time,
in casualties I cannot properly discern or identify,
so that all understanding is blocked and thrust back
as mere knowledge, odious data, nauseating demonstrations,
these relentless present children of the middle class.

Friday, April 10, 2015

"We all want progress. But progress means getting nearer to the place where you want to be. And if you
have taken a wrong turning, then to go forward does not get you any
nearer. If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an
about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man
who turns back soonest is the most progressive man."